In All The Little Things
by Little Patch of Heaven
Summary: France smiles - and ignores the miles and miles of love obvious in his eyes, tells himself they aren't there - and leans over England to kiss that little, scrunched up nose. FrUK Oneshot. De-anon from Kink Meme.


_de-anon from Kink Meme (because that seems to be all I do these days); prompt was just a normal day in the life of a couple; nothing fantastic, strange, or soap-opera-ish._

_And this is fluff? What? How'd that happen? (And remember, please review!)_

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><p><strong>In All the Little Things<strong>

France awakes first, as he usually does; the day is one of those beautiful once-a-week Sundays where there are never meetings or duties or appointments to drag him from his bed. (It's a blessing, France thinks, that there are far too many different religions and beliefs to ever properly organize anything on the weekend.)

The room is not yet bright - still dark thanks to the thick, mahogany curtains France purchased years and years ago and still adores despite their age - but the sun is stubbornly worming it's way through the little cracks left. It casts just enough light to allow France the pleasure of watching the blankets beside him rise and fall with even breaths.

((It is also a blessing that sometimes on Saturdays or Sundays - or weekdays when he's extremely lucky - England decides to visit; not because he really wants to, he'll say, but France knows that the way his fists clench just slightly and his mouth quirks just so is a sign that he's lying - so maybe, just maybe, England comes to visit on Saturdays and Sundays and sometimes Other-days because he wants to. And maybe he kisses him and sleeps with him and is still there in the morning because he wants to be. Maybe.))

England is still fast asleep; without work to drag him out of bed France knows he will be for a while. In the quiet, early-morning shadows of the room, France lies on his side and watches the other man, running his hand through the man's messy, blond hair, twisting and tangling the strands around his fingers. ("_Stop petting me, goddamn it_," England would say, were he awake, "_I'm not a dog_." and France almost laughs at this thought but doesn't, bites his lip to hold it in so he doesn't ruin this moment by waking the sleeping man.)

England snores, even if he denies it whenever France comments on it - not loudly, like his brother Scotland who roars like a lion in his sleep, but softly, quietly, just barely there; it's strangely adorable, somehow, even if it is just snoring and it is just England.

He scrunches up his nose when he dreams, too. Like a rabbit.

(It's another one of those oddly adorable details that make France's insides flutter and flap like butterflies - not that he'll ever, ever admit it, because that's only for fools in love.)

France smiles - and ignores the miles and miles of love obvious in his eyes, tells himself they aren't there - and leans over England to kiss that little, scrunched up nose. (There are exactly twelve freckles on that nose - not that France has ever counted. More than once, at least.)

And then, because though this warm bed with this rarely quiet and adorable Englishman in it is inviting (to say the least), there is more he could do with his time than stay in bed until England wakes; France pulls himself from the warm, thick covers and shivers when the cold air of the room hits his bare skin; he searches the room quickly for clothes, shivering, and pulls dark jeans and a tight, navy shirt over his goosebump-covered arms and legs.

And then he pulls on some argyle socks that are absolutely hideous but very, very warm. (They were a gift from England because _only England_ would actually give socks as a birthday present, and hideous, completely unfashionable ones at that; it's silly and it's strange - except it's England, so maybe it's lovely and it's sweet and maybe France loves them anyway - the socks, that is.)

The house is still and silent as he walks down the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the halls and empty rooms; he enters the kitchen and opens the blinds, wishing to open the windows to the fresh, morning breeze but unwilling to let the cold in. The day is just starting and France loves it, loves being a part of it, even if others like England would rather sleep through it.

("_I hardly get enough sleep as it is_," England argued when he wanted to watch the sunrise on his roof together, "_Don't even think about taking away my Sundays. And I've seen the sunrise a million times, you bloody romantic frog_." A tired England is a grumpy(er) England, so France pouts and complains and makes a big fuss of it but lets him sleep anyway.)

France starts on breakfast - a true English breakfast with all the works, because England will love it even if he won't say it and France has grown quite fond of it too. He turns on the coffeepot and, as it's heating up, fills up the tea kettle with water and heats it on the stove.

He is just finishing up when he hears grunts and moans from upstairs; it sounds sort of like someone's dying, but he knows it's really just England waking up. There are muffled curses and footsteps walking across floors and coming downstairs and then a bleary-eyed, messy-haired Englishman lumbers into the kitchen in baggy sweatpants and a shirt that Francis thinks must be his - it's fashionable, for one thing, and the sleeves are just a bit too long, just enough that they fall past England's fingers and hide his hands. (It's another one of those strangely adorable things, France thinks, a little, goofy smile on his face.)

England mumbles some sort of half-awake gibberish that was probably meant to be "_tea, please_" and sits at the counter and rests his head on his folded arms; France fills up a mug of Earl Gray - with just a touch of milk and two spoonfuls sugar - and sets it by England's head, turning back to finish up breakfast.

"You're up early," he comments cheerfully.

England only grumbles and moans for a moment in reply, then lifts his head and takes a sip of his tea. "The bed was cold when yeh left," he mutters once he's swallowed, and France finds it funny how heavily his accent coats his words when he's tired. (It's a lot of Cockney and a bit of Yorkshire, and France can probably only understand it because he's known England for so very long.)

France, of course, ever the romantic, interprets the other man's reply as "_I missed you_" and drops what he's doing immediately to hurry over to the still half-asleep man and hug him tightly. England flails in his arms, but it's lacking energy and does nothing to get France off of him; finally he stills and buries his face into France's chest. "Ge' off meh," he mutters. "It's too early fer this."

France reluctantly lets go and heads back to the stove. He fills two plates full of bacon, sausage, eggs, and toast - with marmalade for England that France refuses to 'ruin his bread with' - quickly prepares a cup of coffee for himself, and takes a seat next to England, placing the food in front of them. England stares at it for a few moments, green eyes still glazed over with sleepiness, as if he can't figure out what it's there for.

Finally, he shakes his head slightly, waking himself up, and begins eating. He doesn't say it's good (heaven forbid a compliment for France from England) but his mouth twitches up at the corners in what France knows is a suppressed smile.

It's silent as they eat, and somehow, strangely enough, it's comfortable that way. If you asked them, England would say he was too tired to insult the frog, France would say he was busy eating. (But maybe, perhaps, they're both starting to like this habit of not always fighting.)

They finish breakfast quickly and by the time France clears their plates and puts them in the dishwasher, England is finally awake. He yawns loudly and stretches like a cat; France watches as his shirt rides up enough to expose his pale stomach and when England notices the stare, he glares and pulls the shirt back down with a scowl. "Pervert," he accuses, but there is hardly any fire in the insult. (It's the magic of these lazy Sundays, France thinks.)

"You know me so well," France responds, grinning as he crosses his arms against the counter and leans towards England.

"Unfortunately," England grunts as he stands and heads towards the family room, but he doesn't turn away fast enough for France to miss the playful smile on his face.

With a smile and a shake of his head, France finishes cleaning the kitchen and then braves the cold outside to retrieve his daily newspaper.

As he enters the family room, he is greeted to the sight of England curled up against the corner of the love seat, his bare toes peaking out from his too long sweatpants; a thick book sits in his lap and he glances up from it to watch France take a seat beside him, before turning back to it and flipping the page.

(France sits a little closer than is normal, leaning up against England's side so he can feel the warmth coming from the other man; England leans a little closer too, and one of his hands falls away from his book, resting on the sofa cushion. France opens his newspaper and somehow as he's reading it, one of his hands manages to find England's; their fingers tangle together comfortably, fitting snug like a puzzle; it makes England's breath hitch a little and France's heart swell a bit, because it's just a tad bit more domestic than they're ready to admit to, but it kind of feels nice, kind of feels right, so they leave it.)

They do not talk, each too wrapped up in their own reading (and both too comfortable) to bother insulting each other. They hardly move; occasionally England turns a page in his book; sometimes France flips the pages of his newspaper; every once in a while they lean further into each other; and once, but just once, France leans in suddenly - because he's so very good at spontaneity - and kisses England's cheek. (He pulls back and returns to his reading before England can comment; England stares at him with a face that France can't read before pretending it didn't happen and flipping the page of his book. But there's this silly, little smile on his face that wasn't there before.)

(_Sometimes, but he won't admit it, England wonders why France stays with him_.)

Some time around noon, France stands and tugs England up with him, who stumbles and possibly would have fallen if France hadn't steadied him with his free hand. (The other is still interwoven with England's and he doesn't want to release it quite yet.) "What?" England asks, annoyance obvious, placing the bookmark back in his book to mark the page before dropping it on the couch. He turns to glare at France.

"It's lunchtime, cher," France says simply, tugging England towards the kitchen.

"I've told you to stop calling me that," he hears the younger nation mutter behind him and he fights back a smile.

"Whatever you say, mon chou," France replies simply.

England growls and swats France's shoulder with his free hand. "That's worse," he argues - but the red on his face more likely from embarrassment than anger.

France merely laughs and grins back at him, squeezing England's hand gently as they enter the kitchen. It is here that France finally releases England's hand to begin searching through the cupboards for something to cook. England swears he doesn't feel disappointed by this - not at all, not even a little bit.

(But he does.)

.

(( In the kitchen there's a fridge that's rather boring and rather ordinary. But on this fridge there's this piece of paper that France has titled his 'grocery list.'

There in France's neat handwriting it reads:

_farine  
>porc<br>pain  
>sucre<br>cigarettes_

And underneath all that, England's added in his scrawling cursive '_buy me some black pudding_'. France can't stand black pudding - he thinks it absolutely awful.

But the next time he goes to the store, he buys some anyway. ))

.

France surveys his pantry for a moment while England waits. Finally, he emerges, grabs England's hand and begins pulling him to the stairs. "What the hell, France!" England yells, yanking his hand away. "What in the world are you doing?"

"Let's go out to eat instead," France answers. "But I will not be seen in public with you like that. Go change."

England grumbles at him - it sounds an awful lot like '_I don't want to be seen in public with you at all_' - but heads upstairs anyway.

"You can wear that shirt, though!" France calls up after him, winking flirtatiously when England glances back at him. "I like seeing you in my clothes!"

"Shut up," England growls, pausing on the top step. "I only wore it because you threw my clothes all over the place last night and I couldn't find _my_shirt," he explains. (Except he brought a whole bag of clothes with him, so that's not really an excuse.)

England turns and disappears down the hall. After a moment of waiting France yells, "And please, dear, try to do something with those eyebrows of yours! I wouldn't want to frighten any of my citizens!"

He receives a few choice curses in reply.

(_Sometimes, but he won't admit it, France thinks he might die if England ever leaves_.)

.

.

.

They keep close as they walk through the streets of Paris.

.

(( "_Only because it's cold and you're warm_," England assured when he wrapped his arms around France's and pressed tight to his body.

"_Of course_," France replied, rolling his eyes; he pulled his arm from England's tight grip - and no, England did _not_whine about this, thank you very much - before he wrapped it around England's thin waist and pulled him close. ))

.

There's a light dusting of snow on the ground, and it makes Paris sparkle, leaves two pairs of close footsteps as they walk through the crowded streets - those footsteps will fade, be covered up and stomped away by others' feet, England knows, but there seems something magical about them anyway. England shakes this thought away at once - it's much too romantic and ridiculous a thought to even consider; there's absolutely nothing magical about Paris. (Except - except it's France's _heart_, so maybe, maybe that makes it somewhat special. Somewhat magical, even.)

"Hey," England grunts out, glaring at France. "There better be tea wherever we go. And they better speak English; I'm not speaking any of your damn frog-speak. And -"

France covers England's mouth with his free hand. (He would have kissed him, but then England would go on for hours about public displays of affection - "_Not that there's any affection to speak of!_" he would add - and people assuming they're in a relationship - "_Which we're not, obviously! As if I would ever be with a damn, poofty, French frog like you!_") "It will be fine," France says. "For once, just try to enjoy it."

England frowns, pulls his face away from France's hand, and mutters, "As if I could ever enjoy anything from this bloody, ridiculous, love-obsessed country of yours."

France just laughs and pulls him closer. He takes a chance and kisses England's cheek and is pushed away by a squirming, swearing, heavily blushing England who, true to France's prediction, begins to yell about public appearances and people getting the wrong idea about them.

They eat at a lovely little café and England only complains once - a true record, France thinks. Afterwards they walk through the streets with no destination in mind, no true purpose in mind, with fingers woven together, bodies pressed close, and magical intertwining footsteps trialing behind them in the snow.

It's all rather ordinary, all rather domestic, but it's absolutely beautiful because of that. It's something fragile, this new relationship forming between them, and they have to take it slow - one careful step at a time so it doesn't all crumble beneath them.

When they're done with their wandering - and when the cold becomes too much for them - they head back to France's house; France pulls England upstairs and into bed and then just stops. There. In bed.

He doesn't pull off England's clothes, he doesn't kiss at England's neck. He just falls back in the bed and pulls the fully-clothed England on top of him, holding him close. They stare at each other, green into blue, and both can see the caution, the fear in the other's eyes - because this is all so different it's _frightening_.

"I -" England breathes, and France wishes he could read that expression and know what England wants to say. (He has a guess, or more a wish, but he can't be certain.) England's gaze roams France's face as he struggles to make his words work. And then, he stops and changes his mind, and says, "I need to get back soon; I have work tomorrow" instead.

France nods and whispers, "Of course."

England bites his lip and then buries his face into France's chest to hide it. France only smiles and kisses his forehead, wondering silently, secretly, when they'll be ready to utter that oh, so terribly frightening word that starts with an 'l' and ends with an 'e'. It isn't now, he knows, as he's combing his fingers through England's messy hair and listening to the soft, gentle melody their heartbeats compose; and it may not be this week. Or even this year. It may not be for centuries, for lifetimes.

But they have time.

And France is fine with how things are - as long as he can awake to slurred curses and quiet, little snores; as long as he can make Earl Gray with his coffee in the mornings; as long as he can hold hands as he reads the paper and buy black pudding with his weekly groceries and experience all those other simple everyday miracles.


End file.
